


Strings

by sarcastic_fina



Series: The Multiships of One Chloe Sullivan [33]
Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they started this, there were very serious rules. No strings attached. Somewhere along the way, that was simply impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings

_If I walk, would you run?_  
If I stop, would you come?  
If I say you're the one, would you believe me?  
If I ask you to stay, would you show me the way?  
Tell me what to say so you don't leave me. 

_But I'll try for your love_  
I can hide up above  
I will try for your love  
We've been hiding enough 

**Try**  – Asher Book

***

When they started this, there were very serious rules. The most important of them all being that it was just sex, nothing more. There were no strings; only comfort. There were no others; just to be safe. With the lives they led, it seemed a smart plan at first. Frustrations would eventually build and instead of getting into a potentially sticky situation with an unknown, they would instead turn to each other. She hesitated to call it ‘secret’ as it was more of just… not public. They didn’t spread the word to their friends or introduce each other as boyfriend/girlfriend, because they weren’t and it was nobody else’s business.

When he had a hard day at work, be it Queen Industries or the League, he would seek her out and she’d gladly help relieve him of the stress. Just as he was quick to surrender when she had something that made the itch need scratching. It was meaningless sex between friends; good friends, partners even, the mom and pop of the Justice League, as they were kiddingly referred to by the rest of the team. So instead of him drowning his sorrows in alcohol and random women, he got back on task and when he needed a release, he knew who to find.

And for the first few weeks that worked out fine; until he went and upped things a notch.

“I’m hungry,” he muttered against her back, while his fingers drew figure eights along her skin.

Wide awake and still buzzing from the last couple of hours in bed, she turned her head from where it was buried in her pillow. “I think there’s leftover Chinese in the fridge."

Propping his chin on her shoulder, he cocked a brow. “I think we can do better than  _that_ , Sidekick…” He grinned charmingly. “You and me and an Italian restaurant… If we dress quickly I bet I can get us a table at Alessandro’s!” Suddenly, he was rolling off the bed and searching for his pants.

Frowning, Chloe turned over onto her back. “Ollie… Isn’t dinner a little personal?”

He flashed a smile at her. “Come on…. As if dinner together is going to make us the next Lois and Clark.” Walking to her closet, he fingered through her clothes and finally drew out a green dress. “One dinner isn’t going to hurt us…” Sitting down on the bed, he laid the dress out next to him. “If you’re really good, we’ll have dessert after.” With a wink, he left her room, grabbing his tossed dress shirt on the way.

With a sigh, she reached for her dress. “Why do I think dessert’s going to consist of me wearing chocolate syrup…” she muttered, not bothering to hide her smile.

Giving in the one time left her open to change in the future.

Sharing meals soon became a theme to their relationship; lunches, breakfasts, dinner, even coffee breaks were spent together. Were he anybody else, she’d be sick and tired of seeing him already. But Oliver had a way of keeping things light even when they shouldn’t be. And she liked how things had become; now it wasn’t just her going home alone, trying to keep herself from clinging to the non-reality of her computers. Occasionally, he even talked her into going to see the latest movie at the theatre. It almost felt… normal.

But she knew the truth and so she shielded herself from any needless attachment. When he showed up at her place, sex was always involved. Be it hard and sweaty, on top of her desk or against a wall; frustration overflowing from the both of them. Or when it was slow and seductive and went on for hours of foreplay and positions that left her feeling achy in a good way. By the end of either, she was always warm and sore and feeling like a million bucks.

It went on for months; she didn’t even realize it until a bouquet of six tulips appeared on her desk.

Brow furrowed, she looked up at him as he circled the desk to overlook the files she’d intercepted.

Suspicious, she glared at him. “Flowers?”

He smirked. “How do you know they’re from me? They could be from any number of men.” Hands on his hips, he said, “Clark could’ve gone digging and found his head, subsequently removing it from his ass… Bart might’ve given up on cheesy pick-up lines and remembered your favorite flower… You could have a secret admirer neither of us know about…”

She blinked. “Any flowers coming to me would have to go through  _you_  and your security first… That rules out secret admirer, because you’d no doubt find the guy, run a severe background check, and then you and the boys would interrogate him until he realized a crush on me was a  _bad_ idea… And I just saw Clark; safe to say his head is still firmly implanted elsewhere.” Crossing her arms, she leaned back in her chair to cock a brow at him. “So? What’s the occasion? Milestone for the League I don’t know about…?”

“Your deductive skills never cease to amaze me, Sidekick." He grinned. "And maybe there isn’t an occasion… Maybe I just wanted to see you smile.”

She was unfazed. “There are plenty of ways you make me smile, Oliver… And none of them have ever involved flowers…” Suddenly, she turned her eyes up. “Actually, there was that one time… in the garden… and the night you put rose petals in the bathtub and then we…” Shaking her head. “In any case, it was never unrelated to…  _clothed happenings_.”

He chuckled. “Did you really just refer to any time we’re not having sex as ‘clothed happenings’?”

Rolling her eyes, she pursed her lips. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Just enjoy them…” he sighed. “And tell me what it is you found…”

It was later that night, while he was washing her hair in the shower, that it came to her. “Six months!” Her abrupt half-shout startled him as he stood behind her making him yank on her hair accidentally. The tug nearly made her lose her balance.

Catching her; a soaking wet and sudsy arm wrapping around her waist, he turned her around. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she replied absently, before pushing her lathered hair off her face. “It’s been six months since we started this… this… Well,  _this_ _!_ ” she exclaimed, motioning between them. “And  _that_ is what the flowers were for.” Hands on her hips now, she glowered at him.

He grinned. “I know you’re trying really hard to look angry… but you’re naked, covered in bubbles, and only half of your hair is rinsed…” Reaching out, he smeared a trail of bubbles down her nose.

Chloe scoffed to hide her amusement.

Leaning down, Oliver pecked her forehead before turned her around and tipping her head back so he could rinse the last of the shampoo from her hair. His deft fingers massaged circles into her scalp and before she could argue with him that he shouldn’t be paying attention to non-existent anniversaries, her eyes had fallen half-closed while she relaxed into his embrace, her back meeting his hard chest.

While steam and hot water clouded all around her, Oliver squeezed conditioner into her hair and began working it into a lather. Ducking his head to the crook of her neck, his lips began making a path down and across her shoulder, his teeth and tongue nipping and laving her skin. (You are so soft.) “Вы настолько мягки,” he murmured, in a language she couldn’t comprehend. As if to distract her from that fact, one of his hands slid down her front, a large palm cupping her breast and squeezing before his thumb swiped along her nipple.

It worked. She whimpered, stepping back into him, head lolling to the side. His hard length was pressed tight at the apex of her thighs and the feel of him, so ready, made her bite her lip.

His other hand slid along her waist, fingertips teasing her navel. Soap drew shapes along her skin, soon washed away by the pounding water that sluiced down her body. Reaching back, she buried her fingers around his neck, feeling the ends of his wet hair, searching for balance as her body seemed to sway with enticement. His hand crept down her thigh and automatically, she opened for him. He nipped her earlobe affectionately, nuzzling her neck with his nose.

(When will you understand?) “когда Вы поймете?” he wondered, his hot breath tickling her cheek.

Without warning, his fingers slid between her slick folds, thumb brushing against her clit while his forefinger curled inside her.

With a gasp, she lifted onto her tiptoes, head thrown back against his shoulder.

Hand still grasping her breast, he circled her nipple with his thumb, flicking it in time with his other against her clit.

Chloe’s eyes opened, searching for his.

Dark, fused with lust, he stared at her, watched as her cheeks flushed and her mouth fell open in a cry as he added a second finger to her hot depths. He kissed the corner of her mouth, his tongue teasing her lower-lip. “Ollie…” she begged, rocking her hips against his hand.

(You are so beautiful.) “Вы настолько красивы, Chloe… Your skin… your eyes…” He touched his nose to hers. “The way you taste… everywhere…” He licked his lips and she shuddered with the intensity of his words.

 _What language was that?_  she wondered. But she couldn’t focus; couldn’t think of much more than his lips and his fingers and body, so hard and hot against her own. Not an hour ago, they’d been at work. Everything had been as usual; they focused on the needs of others, making out plans to attack or to stay in wait. They kept an eye on the other team members, and she’d hacked into a few servers she’d had her eye on of late. All the while, she’d been pondering the importance of the flowers.

Oliver was known for being charming, but unlike most people she knew he often had a reason behind what he did. The tulips stayed at the back of her mind all day long; their fragrance reached out and teased her. And whenever he walked by, she found herself staring at him, wondering, trying to figure out his game plan. And he’d simply smirked, knowingly.

And now she knew; he’d remembered something even  _she_ hadn’t put a date to really. Six months ago,  _they_ started. A simple verbal agreement that sex with strangers wasn’t needed when a single friend they were attracted to was right there. And it’d been working out great for them; even with the added intimacy of meals and movies and whatever else struck his fancy. But six months had come knocking without her even noticing; it had all been going so smoothly that she hadn’t realized  _half a year_ was spent with Oliver Queen.

The surge of his fingers scissoring inside her brought her back to the moment.

Her feet were moving and soon she found her hands pressed against the wall of her shower. His fingers fled her heat and she whimpered disagreeably, but his warm chuckle and his hands on her hips told her she had no need to argue. Within seconds, not bothering to tease her, he’d thrust deep inside her. Head falling down, wet tendrils of her hair slipped across her cheeks. Her back tightened, shoulders straining as she adjusted to the girth and length of him immobile inside her; filling every tight corner with pure, masculine desire.

His hands splayed along her stomach, thumbs stroking back and forth. Head falling forward, he buried his face against her neck. (It is never enough.) “Никогда достаточно,” he gasped, drawing out. “Я нуждаюсь в Вас все больше…” (I need you, more and more.)

She might not understand him, but his words, even in another language, were rough and filled with promise. Her toes curled in the hot water at her feet, her knees shaking as he filled her with such intent purpose and then left her so slowly the intimacy of it was glaring. His hands slid up her sides, massaging from hips to shoulders, fingers and palms kneading into her flesh. And his mouth kissed along her neck, his hot breath against her skin, the murmur of his unknown language stark.

She cried out as he penetrated her once more; the whole of her body shuddering as ecstasy built high inside her, so close to overflowing. His hands slid to her front, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples as he slid out of her. She swore she could feel every inch of him; every line of his impressive cock, imprinted against her heat. The very idea made her clench, squeezing the tip of him and encouraging him to impale her once more. He growled at her neck, nipping her skin; and her back flexed as tendrils of an orgasm fluttered. He knew, he  _always_ knew; he could play her body like one of his taut bows. He slowed down, keeping her at the very edge. His hands slid up, cupping her biceps and gliding along her wet arms until they covered her hands, his fingers sliding into the empty spaces in between hers.

There was a flutter in her chest; a pang of intimacy. She tried to pull away; physically and emotionally. But he kept her just where she was; his body so much larger and stronger than hers. His hands held hers where they were and his chest hot against her back didn’t budge. He canted his hips and she felt him twitch heavily inside her, sending her head forward in submission and a moan escaping her throat.

(So stubborn.) “Столь упрямый,” he said, his warm breath skittering over her ear.

“Ollie…” she whimpered, rocking herself against him. “ _Please…_ ”

Slow and teasing left the shower stall immediately. Instead, he was thrusting in and out of her with purpose, harder and deeper with each meeting of their hips. She shook, from the inside out. Her orgasm spread across her like a wildfire, licking at her skin and making her knees wobble. She cried out, her balance slipping from her. But his arm wrapped around her waist, held her up, and he continued on through every shake and clench of her heat around him. She came three times, her toes barely brushing the floor of the shower as he held her up. And finally, as her hand gripped his at her stomach, squeezing, he gave in. “я люблю Вас,” he whispered at her neck before his hips slammed against hers and he stilled, hot liquid filling her and coating her thighs.

Gasping for air, she could hardly open her eyes.

How he managed to stand, she didn’t know. But he stepped back into the spray of the water, carrying her all the while, and with tender hands he washed away the remnants of their time together. When her legs grew feeling in them once more, she stood in front of him on her own. She could’ve easily fallen asleep, right then and there, urged on by his hands rubbing all over her hips and her stomach and massaging her shoulders. For a fraction of a moment, she wondered… Why was it never this good with anybody else? Why hadn’t Jimmy been this sweet afterwards or this  _incredible_? But she shook her head, rid that of her mind entirely, and instead focused on Oliver’s lips trailing down the side of her face.

It wasn’t until the water grew cold that he turned it off and they left the shower. She felt like there was something she was meant to say or acknowledge, but she didn’t know what. So instead, she watched him; in all of his arrogant and supremely attractive glory as he walked dripping wet and beautifully naked to grab a couple fluffy towels from the shelf. He dried her off; rubbing her hair until it was a mess of riotous waves that would be hell to comb out later, hugging her to his chest as he wiped down her back and arms. He took care to wrap the towel around each leg, kneeling in front of her as he did, half-smiling as her hands fell to his shoulders to keep her balance. And then her stomach and her breasts, his hands covered in terry cloth as he wiped away each dribbling line of cooling water. Until finally, he wrapped a dry towel around her and without warning, picked her up into his arms.

With a shriek, she looked up at him in surprise, her eyes wide.

And he grinned, laughing under his breath.

She didn’t even have time to ask him what he thought he was doing before he’d walked into her bedroom and dropped her in the center of her bed. And then he was at her dresser, dragging out one of his old t-shirts that he’d left there months ago. Crossing back to her, he rolled the shirt up to its neck and then pushed it over her head, dragging it down until she slid her arms through the holes. Reaching beneath it, he tugged the towel free and tossed it into a nearby laundry basket. And with that, he crawled into bed next to her, nudging her over a few inches.

She should have argued. Sleeping together, having had no exhausting sex while in her bed, seemed too intimate. Yes, they’d just had shower sex, but now she was wide awake and everything felt like it had more meaning when she wasn’t falling asleep in his arms due to the fact that he’d exhausted her and she could hardly fathom moving. The lights were out, the night wearing on, and he had his arm across her waist, his large palm spread across her possessively. She could feel his breath on her ear, his face buried in her hair, and his long, naked body warm against her.

Yes, she should’ve argued.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she gave in. Like she found herself doing often with him.

And with his heat and his fingers drawing on her stomach, she fell into a peaceful sleep.

Now, come the morning, Chloe in all of her intelligence might have wanted to sit down and talk to him about the night before. She might’ve wanted to clear up the confusion of what they were and to remind him and her of the strict no-strings attached rule of their non-relationship. But when morning came, she stretched, arms high above her head and toes reaching for the end of the bed. And instead of finding him there, like she was used to after a night of toe-curling sex, he was gone. There was no banter over coffee or slow half-asleep morning sex. She was simply alone in her very large bed, wearing a ratty shirt that still, to this day, smelled just like him.

And she was…  _disappointed_.

Much as she wanted to remind him that they were just relieving stress, she liked those mornings that it was just him and her. He’d make breakfast, and he’d burn the bacon, because he always did. And when he broke the yolks in the eggs, he’d just turn them into scrambled rather than admit his mistake. And he’d make her coffee, just the way she liked it. She would sit at the small table, her hair a mess and a smile on her lips, and watch as he played chef in his loose jeans that hung deliciously off his lean hips. He would wink at her, smirking,  _knowing_ what she was thinking and where she was looking.

With a sigh, her hand suddenly covered her eyes and her lips wobbled.

Oh God!

After all this time; all of this convincing and keeping things at a certain distance… After telling herself time and again that what they were doing was normal and not at all as intimate as it might seem… She shook her head violently; she wouldn’t do this. No! She would not accept what she thought had happened. Throwing the sheet off, she stood from her bed, tucked her feet in her slippers and left her room. She left the bed that smelled like him, walking past the dresser where his shirts and pants were folded inside, and pointedly ignored the laundry basket where his and her clothes were cluttered inside.

Walking downstairs, she ran her fingers through her hair, and wondered if she couldn’t pull up her computers and do a little work to keep herself from focusing on a matter she wanted to ignore. But as she crossed the floor toward her watchtower set up, she came to a stumbling stop.

He was in the kitchen.

He was wearing his low-slung jeans and there was a furrow at his brow. He cracked an egg into the pan, the yolk broke, as usual, and so he frowningly used the spatula to stir it up. Looked like they were having scrambled eggs.

Her eyes suddenly burned as a smile curved her lips.

Suddenly, Oliver looked over his shoulder, spotting her. “Morning, Sidekick,” he greeted, grinning. “You’re out of bacon, but I found sausages… And I think your bread went bad so it’s just sausages and scrambled eggs.” With a shrug, he glanced at the coffee maker where liquid morning was still brewing. “Won’t be long now.”

Nodding, she walked toward him slowly, her head tipped to the side.

When was it,  _exactly_ , that she thought getting into a sex-only relationship with Oliver Queen was a  _good_ idea? Because right now it seemed like she’d just messed up; again. Same old tune. Here was a guy who could have just about any woman alive and hadn’t turned down many of the offers he’d gotten. On top of that, he played hero at night; dressing up in green leather and donning a bow and arrow to kick some bad guy ass. He did what had to be done, despite how dark those choices could get and he didn’t back down in the glare of self-righteous knowing that was Clark. And here he was, in her apartment, acting like the best boyfriend a girl could ask for.

The sausages were only slightly burned on one side and the eggs were faring well. Leaving them to cook, he turned to pour them each a mug of fresh coffee, putting in her two creams and one sugar absently before fixing his own. He held it out to her as he returned to the stove and she took it, wrapping her hands close around the mug and bringing it up for her to inhale. He smiled, as if he knew what she was doing, and then he was dishing out their breakfast onto a couple plates before passing her hers and walking to the table. Dropping his on top, he pulled out her chair for her and then sat down in his own.

Chewing her lip, she found herself analyzing  _everything_.

How it was  _Watchtower_  had overlooked the obvious, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d been too distracted by playing it aloof; by being as disconnected as she could.

Breakfast was quiet. Oliver read the newspaper, going through the business section with a curious lift of his brow. She noticed absently the way his foot rubbed against her own, something he didn’t even seem to notice he was doing. But as she thought back, she realized he did it every time. Every breakfast they shared, while he read his newspaper and sipped his coffee, his foot would reach out and rub along her ankle in an absently affectionate manner. And she’d accepted it, unconsciously paying no attention to the things that happened without her knowledge.

Just like when the clock struck quarter to seven and it was time for him to meet up with the heads at his company. By six-thirty, he’d take his shower, whether he was at home or her place, get dressed and return to find her still in the kitchen or at her computers, running through information. He’d kiss her temple in goodbye and tell her he’d see her later before he left. And like every other morning, he did just that.

As he stopped behind her chair and leaned down to kiss her temple, he asked, “Lunch?”

“Twelve…” she replied instinctively. “Meet you at Alessandro’s?”

He grinned. “Sounds good.”

And with that, he was gone and she was left to ponder the last six months.

She got absolutely no work done. Instead, she went into research mode. She looked up bank records, restaurant receipts, and even security footage; all for evidence of  _them_. Him and her; Chloe and Oliver. Six months worth of them; of secret smiles and hand holding that she hadn’t even realized she was doing. Meals at least once a day, sometimes up to three times; from a muffin at Starbucks to a three course meal for dinner. When had something that was meant to be emotionless become a relationship, right under her nose?

And what the hell had he been saying to her last night?

Oliver spoke a variety of languages, but the one he’d been rasping against her skin hadn’t been French or Spanish… Russian, maybe. Clark had mentioned Oliver was fluent enough to convince some Russian bad guys a lifetime ago. Russian wasn’t easy to write or repeat, however, and as much as she tried to sound it out, she got nothing. Which meant she’d either have to talk to a translator and hope he knew what she was talking about… and that it wasn’t anything too intimate, or she’d have to give in and ask Oliver.

Meeting him for lunch, she was determined to do just that.

Walking inside Alessandro’s in a green dress and black kitten heels, she needed only to wave at the maître‘d before he pointed to where Oliver was waiting for her. Perusing the menu disinterestedly, his fingers vaguely brushed the bottom of his wine glass. For a moment, she was both angry and sad. If she hadn’t noticed the change in them, she was sure he did. And how could he let it go on? But at the same time, she knew she had to end it. There was no way they could keep doing this, not if they were getting attached. Looking at him, however, she didn’t want to say goodbye to what they had. It was the ache in her heart that set it in stone, however.

When he looked up, smiling at her, she felt her footsteps falter and her resolve shake.

Good Lord was he ever handsome.

Inwardly, she scoffed. He knew he was good looking, as did every woman in this restaurant if the looks he was getting were anything to go by.

He stood when she approached, circled the table and drew out her chair for her. He stood close enough that his body brushed hers and for a moment, her eyes fluttered to half mass and she leaned into that embracing warmth. Catching herself, however, she quickly took her seat and forced herself not to watch as he moved back to his.

“How’s your work going?” he asked.

Slowly. Non-existent. She’d apparently decided to take the morning off to instead focus on what was meant to be a non-relationship only to prove herself wrong. “It’s been… interesting,” she said instead.

“Yeah?” He cocked a brow. “Anything I should be worried about?”

How was she supposed to answer that?

Finally, she settled on, “Not yet.”

Now he just looked interested in hearing more.

So she lifted her menu to cover her face and direct the attention elsewhere. “What looks good?”

He laughed. “After six months, I think we both have their menu memorized.” As a waiter approached, Oliver simply said, “I’ll have the usual.”

His usual – chicken parmigiana with fettuccini alfredo.

Her usual – three cheese ravioli with diavolo sauce and garlic bread.

When in the world did they get ‘usuals’?

When the waiter glanced at her, half-smiling, she knew he knew what she was going to say. “My usual, please.”

Whether she disagreed with the fact that they had one, she did know it was delicious and she was feeling it this afternoon.

As he left, she glanced back at Oliver, who was staring at her in concern now. “You feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, nodding.

Taking a sip of the wine he’d ordered for them, she tried to get her thoughts in order. She knew she had to talk to him about what happened and what he said, but her hands were shaking and her heart was pounding.

“So…” She cleared her throat. There was absolutely no easy way to start the conversation, she decided. “About last night…”

He stared at her, waiting.

She sighed. Some part of her had wished he’d take over the conversation and know exactly what she was talking about.

“What you  _said_ …” Her brow furrowed.

“And what did I say?” he asked, pursing his lips as a smile threatened.

Frowning, she rolled her eyes. “I don’t know… That’s why I’m asking!”

He chuckled lowly. “Russian.”

“I got that…” She blew out an irritated breath. “But translating Russian isn’t one of my many talents.”

Still smiling, he simply stared at her before admitting, “That’s the point.”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or strangle him. “Sometimes, I think you do this just to get a rise out of me.”

“There aren’t many who can push your buttons...” he murmured lowly.

She flushed, knowing exactly what he meant when he said it. His eyes darkened, narrowing, and his lips curved suggestively.

But he let her off the hook. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, drawing his eyes from hers.

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not every day somebody speaks to me in Russian and I was curious…”

“By nature.”

“Right… So…?” She smiled hopefully, lifting her brows with expectation.

Grinning, he sat forward and reached for her hand, turning it over so he could draw circles in her palm with his forefinger.

As a shiver ran down her spine her smile lightened, gentled.

“ваша улыбка столь же красива как тысяча блестящих,” he murmured huskily.

Blinking, she tried to focus on his words and then looked up at him. “Huh?”

He licked his lips. “I said…” His thumb traced around her palm and up the side of her hand slowly, delicately. “Your smile is as beautiful as a thousand brilliant diamonds.”

Her heart hammered, eyes slowly widening. “Oliver…” she murmured.

He said nothing, continuing instead to trace the lines of her hand with his fingers.

She let it go and by the time their lunch had arrived, she found herself at a crossroads.

Her food was tasteless; she was sure the cook’s had done their best, but everything tasted like sawdust to her. He wasn’t looking at her, instead focusing on his meal and seemingly deep in thought.

No words were exchanged and by the end of the meal, she was feeling depressed. He took her hand as they left, paying with his Master Card and then tucking her jacket around her shoulders as they stepped outside, hands finding each other automatically.

“We need to talk,” she finally said, but instead of the strong tone she’d meant to use, it was a lame whisper.

His jaw clenched, his hand squeezing hers.

She expected they’d either go back to his or her place, but instead he turned down an alley, tugging her along next to him. Half way down, he let go of her, kept walking a few feet and carded his fingers through his hair roughly. He was cursing under his breath, but it was obvious enough, even as he spoke in Russian, just what he was saying.

She flinched as he turned toward her.

“Why?” he asked, swallowing tightly. “Things are going well enough. What’s the point in changing anything?”

“Things are…” Her eyes avoided his. “They’re getting confused, Oliver.”

“Tell me how… Huh?” Walking toward her, he gripped her upper arms and shook her enough to get her eyes to meet his. “What’s so wrong about what we have?”

Through grit teeth, she replied, “That fact that we have  _anything_ makes it wrong… This wasn’t supposed to be like this…”

“And who writes the rules, Chloe?” He stared at her searchingly. “We do. So if we say it’s okay, then it is.”

Shaking her head, she bit out, “I can’t do this.”

“No… You  _won’t_ …” He glared darkly. “There’s a big difference.”

She tried to shrug his hands away, but he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he buried one in her hair, turning her face up toward him.

“You can push me away all you want and you can ignore what’s staring you in the face, but if you think I’ll let you lie to me you’re wrong.”

With that, he kissed her; his lips pressing harshly against her own. She wanted to hate him for it; for the way she responded. But her hands stopped pushing him away and instead gripped his coat, pulling him closer. And before she knew it, he was pressing her against a brick wall of a building. Hand sliding beneath her butt, he lifted her up until her thighs were wrapped around his waist. Reaching between them, he fingered her panties out of the way roughly and penetrated her with two long digits. She cried out against his mouth, gasping, and then found herself distracted as his tongue twined with hers.

“This is what you want?” he asked, nipping her lower lip.

“Yes!” she gasped, nodding her eyes falling half-closed as his thumb massaged her clit.

Her hands fell between them, unbuckling his pants and sliding inside to rub his hard bulge. Her fingers slid him free of the confines of his boxer-briefs, gripping him tight and directing him where she wanted,  _needed_ , him.

“No strings,” he muttered breathlessly, before thrusting up inside her.

She cried out as he stretched her sharply; her thighs flexing against his waist. Her head fell back, bumping the hard wall, but she could care less. She wrapped an arm around his neck to keep herself steady while her other ventured beneath his shirt, wrapping around his ribs, her thumb absently stroking a scar she knew by heart. In fact, she knew all of his scars, freckles and birth marks. She knew his body as well as she knew her own; even better since she didn’t have such a great view of hers as she often did his.

He was relentless; pounding deep inside her, hitting just the right spot, over and over again. (My sun… so scared to let me love her…) “Мое солнце ... столь испуганный, чтобы позволить мне, чтобы любить ее...” he croaked huskily, his lips brushing her neck.

Gasping, she stared at the shadowed sky above her, at the frame of building tops that cornered them in their private escape. His hand slid between them, fingers finding and pinching her clit, and with a shudder, she came hard.

He caught her mouth, muffled her scream with his lips before thrusting up inside her and releasing himself.

Boneless, she stayed there, her forehead falling to his shoulder. Legs useless, they clung to his waist. Trying to catch her breath, she absently stroked his neck, her fingers feathering through his hair.

“я люблю Вас,” he murmured, before repeating it once more against her hair. “я люблю Вас.”

And when her chest tightened, she knew what he was saying. She didn’t need a translator or to ask him now.

His hands were shaking as they reached between them and readjusted her clothing before lowering her to the ground, holding her waist as she got the feeling back in her legs.

He wouldn’t look at her now either and the obvious hurt on his face was killing her.

“Ollie…”

“Can we skip the pleasantries?” he muttered, before letting her go and leaving the alley.

She followed sedately behind him.

He turned one way and she the other; him to work and her back to the tower.

She had a lot of thinking to do.

He didn’t call, didn’t come over, and he wasn’t answering her calls.

One week and she felt like her life was falling apart all over again.

Sitting at her computers, she didn’t bother throwing all of herself into them. Instead, she leaned back and twirled absently in her chair, staring at the ceiling sightlessly. She hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed her clothes; instead, she was wearing that old shirt he’d dressed her in forever ago and she was thinking of the mornings and the afternoons and the many nights they’d spent together. Not just the sex, but the laughter and the joy and the feeling of comfort she always had in his presence. And damn it, she missed it. She missed  _him_. It was like part of her was missing and she knew exactly where it was. But she wasn’t willing to go get it; wasn’t willing to do it all over again and…  _try_.

It was as she was sitting there, her eyes sore and red from tears she refused to admit she’d cried over a non-relationship, that it hit her, and hard. All this time she spent avoiding it, he’d been doing the opposite. Where she pushed ‘them’ away, he embraced them. And he knew it, too. It was why he never pushed her for more; why he accepted things as they were. Because he was willing to wait until she figured it out.

Leaning forward, she dropped her face to her hands and sighed.

With a shake of herself, she stood and ran upstairs, stripping his shirt from herself and tossing it to the laundry basket absently. Jumping in the shower, she scrubbed the last week from her skin, leaving herself red and raw. She shook her head every time it conjured that night between them, of the tender touch of his fingers and how he washed her hair for her. Leaving the shower, dripping wet, she grabbed a towel and rubbed herself down absently. She was only half-dry when she dragged on whatever clothes were nearest and then she was running downstairs, grabbing her keys on the way.

It took her twenty minutes to get to his place; due to traffic and being cut off by some jackass who thought he owned the road. He might not have heard all the ways she cursed him, but he certainly saw the finger she waved at him.

She parked illegally, but didn’t care as the doorman told her she’d have to move. She ran past him and toward the elevator, taking it up to the top and bypassing his security to get inside before he would even know she was there. Walking inside, she found the silence worrisome. There was always something going on at his place; whether the guys were hogging his plasma TV or she was on his computers or he was juggling his many different jobs. But the room was dark and there was no sound coming from any direction. She wondered for a moment if he might not even be there; if maybe he’d packed up and returned to Star City.

But then she saw the empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter and her heart dropped to her stomach.

Shaking her head, she hurried inside, only to find him lying on his couch, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes half-closed.

Swallowing, she lost some of her nerve as she stared at him.

“Staring at the poor broken billionaire isn’t nice,” he suddenly said, his voice rough.

“Sorry… I…” Licking her lips, she circled the couch to stand in front of him. “Mind if I turn on a light or two?”

He cocked a brow. “If I say yes will you listen?”

She half-smiled before leaning over and turning on the lamp just behind his head.

He frowned, squinting as the light spilled over him.

His jaw was rough with stubble and his eyes rimmed in red; whether from the booze or something else, she couldn’t be sure. His wrinkled clothes said he hadn’t changed in awhile either, which was definitely unlike him.

“Is this just a study project or did you actually need something?” he growled.

She frowned. “A little less attitude would be nice.”

“Try next door,” he muttered.

“Can we talk…? Please?”

He sat up, rolling his shoulders as he did, as if he’d been laying there for who knew how long. “I dunno… The last time you wanted to talk, I fucked you in a dark alley. You really wanna go there again?”

With a sigh, she sat down on the couch next to him. “I was scared…”

“Welcome to the club.”

She glared at him out of the corner of her eyes. “So it took me a little longer to catch up… Forgive me for not realizing your grand plan!”

“It wasn’t a  _plan_ ,” he muttered. “Things just happened.”

“Really?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So when this was all suggested, you honestly believed nothing more would come of it? Just sex, no strings?”

He looked away.

“You see…?” She stared at him. “You  _knew_ …”

“What? That you and I had an opportunity to be a lot more? Yeah, I’m sure it crossed my mind a time or two…” Leaning back into the couch, he frowned. “That didn’t mean I expected you to figure it out. You were playing blind from the beginning.”

Remembering their first meeting, in a barn where he turned her head and left her in awe, she had to argue. ‘Maybe not the very beginning…”

He glanced at her. “Yeah, well, didn’t stop you from marrying a guy who knew you about as well as a stranger might… Or falling for some psychotic alien out to destroy the world…”

“I’m sorry,” she replied sarcastically, “Was I supposed to stop seeing Jimmy after you and my  _cousin_ blew up?”

“It would’ve been nice!” he exclaimed.

She laughed suddenly. “Are you serious? I was supposed to end a perfectly good relationship for a guy I had no idea was interested in me?”

“Perfectly good?” he repeated, snorting. “He didn’t even  _know_ you.”

She scowled. “Yeah, well, not everything that comes with this job is a  _perk_ , Oliver.”

“If you loved him,  _trusted_ him, you could’ve said something… but you  _didn’t_!”

Her jaw flexed. “I had people to keep safe; people who relied on me.”

“And he wasn’t worthy of the great Chloe Sullivan’s all encompassing trust… Was he?” He stared at her, shaking his head slowly. “And then when it’s all over and they’re both dead and gone, you’re still holding onto a guy who didn’t even get it… A guy who didn’t have all of you from the very beginning!”

Eyes burning, she turned her head away stubbornly. “Don’t presume to know me so well… You ran off and lived in a drunken stupor, leaving your responsibilities in the dust and a team that needed you out there to figure it out for themselves.”

He sighed. “I came back.”

“After I forced a nice slap across the face in your direction,” she reminded.

“And it’s just one of many reasons you and I fit.” Standing up, he walked across the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “But you don’t wanna hear that, right?” He turned, glancing at her. “We were just a verbal contract that I’m sure I’ve fulfilled my quota for.”

She flinched but stood resolutely. “Yes… We were and you have.”

Now it was his turn, and the flinch that registered across his face was painful to see.

“We weren’t meant for this kind of agreement, Oliver… We can’t do this…”

He laughed humorlessly. “It was nice trying then, I guess…” With slumped shoulders, he turned away, staring out the window darkly.

She walked toward him, her footsteps slow, her body shaking.

“I can’t promise I’ll be easy… I’ve just spent six months pretending we weren’t anything more than what we agreed to in the beginning. If I try hard enough, I can be the Queen of Oblivion.” She smiled shakily. “But if you’ll give me another chance… I’d like to walk into this with eyes wide open… I’d like to…  _try_ … us.”

When he didn’t reply, she reached out, her hand falling to his back.

And his head fell, chin meeting his chest. “You’re sure about this?”

She nodded, despite knowing he couldn’t see her. Her fingers flexed, hand sliding up to his shoulder and squeezing.

Taking his cue, he turned, his wary eyes meeting hers.

“I’m sure,” she murmured.

Cupping her face, he brushed her hair behind her ears. “You’ve gotta be all in… One hundred perfect… ‘Cause I’m already there.” He stared searchingly, his thumb stroking her cheeks.

Wrapping her hands around his wrists, she felt the pounding of his heartbeat. “I’m in.”

He smiled, slow, hopeful. And then he was kissing her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her in a tight hug. Lips slanting, tongues and teeth scraping and soothing, their breathing became harsh. Hands wrapping around her thighs, he hauled her up until she wrapped her legs around his waist. Panting, her arms around his neck, face mere inches from his, she grinned. The ache in her chest now was not pain or fear or rejection; it was happiness, content, bliss.

"я люблю Вас,” he murmured thickly.

She nodded, blinking as her eyes burned with tears. “I love you, too.”

And now they were free to explore that; with all the inevitable strings.  
  
[ **End.** ] 


End file.
